


Attrition

by audiaphilios



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Goalies Are Weird, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kent Parson Birthday Bash, M/M, NHL Awards, POV Alternating, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7318027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audiaphilios/pseuds/audiaphilios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jack Zimmermann’s the first out player in the NHL, and the bravery he and his boyfriend have shown means that Alexei now lives in a world where there are gay men openly dominating his beloved sport. Up until now, they’ve had to dominate the sport secretly.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estrelaisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrelaisa/gifts).



> Requestor, I have to beg your pardon for this, because you are only getting the first chapter by the deadline. I have another 13 sketched out, and they will be written, but Serious Life Changes between sign-up and deadline have made it difficult for me to write. If you like (the story and/or the idea), I will send you each chapter exclusively and in advance of publishing it here (or the chapter outlines, if you'd like!). 
> 
> As requested, there is and will be lots of angst, Kit Purrson, and no poly or smut. Just people growing apart, growing together, and growing up.
> 
> Until then, please enjoy this, because I feel it can stand alone, though it won't have to for long.
> 
> Thanks, L, for the beta.

_“…Falconers number 7, Alexei Mashkov!”_

When his name is called, Alexei stands up amongst applause and back-slaps and wolf-whistles, lights flashing in his face as he makes his way up to the stage. He nods to his fellow nominees, flings one arm around the presenter’s shoulders and the other around the trophy, nearly toppling it from the table to a roar of laughter from the crowd. His face is aching from smiling. Tater is having a very good night.

He’s been having a very good year on the whole, if he’s being honest. He makes his way back down to his seat, smiling and shaking hands and accepting praise along the way. He slides back into his seat, with his teammates and their partners, everyone that helped the Falcs get the Cup for the first time in their brief history. He grins at Jack and throws his arm around the shoulders of the small blond sitting between the two of them.

“Was lucky pie, Skittles!”

Bitty, now quite familiar with the casual intimacy of hockey players in general and Tater in particular, elbows him in the ribs with an, “Of course not, Tater, you earned that one on your own.”

Tater, who’s pulled his arm back and is clutching at his side as though hurt, gazes balefully at Jack.

“Don’t expect me to keep him in line. You brought it on yourself.”

“Betrayed!” Tater gasps, and the men are laughing almost too loudly to hear Jack’s name announced for the third time that evening.

It’s been a good evening, Alexei thinks, as he watches Skittles gaze up at Jack with eyes a soft counterpart to how hard he’s clapping.

_X__X__X_

It’s later that night and most of the crowd is on their way past tipsy when Alexei feels Bitty tense next to him. The small blond is glancing nervously across the room, and then back to Jack, who’s enmeshed in an earnest (if a bit inebriated) discussion about something related to collegiate sports. Tater’s been sipping obviously from his special flask all evening, so he’s in a much better position to notice just what’s making Bitty nervous. Alexei leans closes and nudges him gently, making sure he doesn’t sway too far in the opposite direction.

“Erichnya,” he murmurs, “what is wrong?”

“Oh, um. Nothing, Tater, I just…need to get Jack.”

Alexei keeps his eyes on Bitty and tilts his head towards the Aces’ captain, who’s making slow progress on his way to their table as people keep stopping him to congratulate his Mark Messier win. “Something the matter with Parson?”

Bitty’s flush cannot be attributed purely to the alcohol.

“No, well. I mean. It’s just, Jack’s having such a good night.”

“And Parson?”

Bitty sighs, and perhaps he wouldn’t have said as much without the alcohol, but his shoulders drop.

“They had a bit of a…bad break. Between them. Years ago, but Jack tries to stay out of his path.”

Alexei’s brow furrows as he thinks back over the past couple years. They’ve only met the Aces a handful of times, but Alexei thinks he can see a pattern. He tries not to think about any other implications of what Bitty’s revealed. Nevertheless, something in his stomach clenches as he puts a large hand on Bitty’s shoulder and squeezes softly.

“Do not worry, Skittles. I will help.”

Parson’s caught up in another congratulatory conversation as Alexei makes his way over to him. The sheer force of Tater’s determination keeps his own path fairly clear. He makes sure to exaggerate his motions a bit, taking a pull on his flask when Parson notices his approach. He winks, and he can see the faces of the couple talking to Parson brightening as he approaches.

“Captain Kenny! Where are you all my life?” He flings an arm over the man’s shoulders, making him rock a bit unsteadily. Parson’s forehead is on level with his chin.

“Careful, Tater, that’s not your Norris you’re rattling there.”

Tater turns to the unfamiliar man with a wide grin, giving Parson a small shake while he’s at it.

“No, no. Careful handling, here! Is King of Aces, very valuable.”

He frowns down at Parson with what he knows is an over-the-top pained expression.

“Now you, Captain Kenny. Years now we play. You give me Snowy. He tells all sorts of stories, but you never come with us after games! I never talk with you!”

Tater glances over to the unfamiliar man and the woman on his arm, gesturing with his free hand at them.

“You, hello! Do you have stories about the good Captain here? Tell me everything!”

_X__X__X_

 

Half an hour later, Alexei’s guided Parson over to the bar to get another drink. After the bartender takes Parson’s order, she looks to Alexei, who taps the flask in his pocket and winks.

“You’re not actually drinking,” Parson mutters when the bartender turns away to mix his cocktail. Alexei leans back, elbows on the bar and legs stretched out in front of him, and raises an eyebrow.

“You are not so drunk.” From his vantage point, he just catches the back of Bitty’s head as he leaves the room, presumably following Jack. He glances back over to Parson, who’s watching the bartender fixedly.

“I have a reputation to maintain.” Kent sighs, a small thing, but accepts the cocktail handed to him with a smile. The two men make their way back towards the press of people, but Kent’s shoulders seem a bit tighter than they were before.

Alexei knows the tone has changed a bit from their gregarious play-acting, but can’t resist wrapping his arm around those shoulders again.

“Party boy or great captain?”

Kent eyes him carefully, something wary in the look despite the slight lowering of his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says.

Alexei gives Kent’s shoulder another squeeze before dropping his arm back to his side. He and Kent have come to a stop some distance yet from the mingling mass, and Alexei pulls out his flask for something to do with his hands. He looks at it, takes a sip, then offers it to Kent with a quirked eyebrow. Kent’s eyes are still cautious, but his lips twitch at the corners as he takes the flask.

Alexei’s laughter booms through the ballroom as Kent’s eyes fly open and he does an actual spit-take. He gasps, trying to recover, as attention shifts to the two of them and people draw conclusions from the way Tater takes back his flask. A murmur of laughter moves through the crowd, and Alexei hears one of Kent’s teammates—Swoops?—shout out, “Gotta watch that Russian brew, Parser!”

Kent’s muttering under his breath and Alexei thumps him gently on the back.

“Fucking—sweet tea, Al?”

Alexei shrugs a shoulder, smiles.

“It’s nice. I like it.”

“I was expecting water.”

Alexei’s smile broadens into a grin.

“I know.” He claps his hand on Kent’s back again for good measure. Most of the faces have turned away from them now that their bit of slapstick is done. He looks down at the Aces’ captain, tightens his stomach against the temptation of those few inches. “I have reputation to maintain.”

_X__X__X_

Alexei watches Kent Parson.

Since Jack Zimmermann joined the Falconers, Alexei’s had many reasons to appreciate his rookie. First and foremost, as captain of the Falconers, Alexei appreciates the contributions that the new player has made to their team over the past two years, including his major role in getting the Stanley Cup this year. Personally, however, Zimmermann has changed Alexei’s world for the better, even if he can’t act on any of those changes at the moment.  Jack Zimmermann’s the first out player in the NHL, and the bravery he and his boyfriend have shown means that Alexei now lives in a world where there are gay men openly dominating his beloved sport. Up until now, they’ve had to dominate the sport secretly.

Glancing sideways at the less-inebriated-than-he’s-acting captain of the Las Vegas Aces, Alexei wonders how far back those secrets go. Surely theirs can’t be the first generation, but even with Jack on his team, he can’t ask the old guys. You don’t ask anyone, you wait for them to tell you, if they tell you. If they recognize you.

And so he sits on this new knowledge, inadvertently gained, and looks with new-old eyes at Kent Parson. Parson, who he’s admired for years for his skills both on the ice and with his teammates, but willfully shut down any other thoughts about because the locker room mentality holds true for all of hockey. _Don’t look_. He won’t say anything, but he’s looking now. He’s recognizing.


	2. Chapter 2

Kent unlocks the door to his condo later that night still feeling unreasonably bruised from his evening. It’s not physical, he knows it, but he’s feeling tender around the edges. As grateful as he is for the Messier, he’s pretty much over all the dog and pony show. Crowds don’t make him feel as safe as they used to, and he doesn’t like drinking in public all that much anymore.

He hadn’t been more than buzzed at any given point tonight. HE was definitely sober for more than an hour before actually leaving the hotel ballroom and the surprisingly comfortable company of Alexei Mashkov.

He moves to his sidebar and pours himself a real drink.

_X__X__X_

Kent’s not sure what to think about Mashkov. The Russian wasn’t far off-base; they’d both been playing in the league for nearly as long as one another, but had never had a real conversation. Of course, there are plenty of players that Kent’s never talked to, but he’d seen Mashkov time and again the Awards, and occasionally at the All-Star games. He’s not entirely sure how he’d kept out of Mashkov’s orbit—and the man definitely had an unexpected gravity. Besides, Kent still kept in touch with Snowy before and after Jack joined the Falconers, so there really was no excuse.

 _Jack_. Another reason, he knows, for the stiffness in his muscles. He pours himself another drink. He’d hoped to get the chance to talk with Jack, but by the time he’d made it as far as the Falconers’ table, he had been gone. Kent’s bones ache with all the missed opportunities. He wanted things to come right between them. He knew they’d never be what they were before, that Zimms was happy with his new boy, but he missed his friend. The muscles in his hand seize with missing his friend.

He pours himself another drink.

He doesn’t want to feel ungrateful, but if he hadn’t won the award, he would’ve made it to Zimms' table. He wanted to meet his boy, for real this time. Wanted to shake the hand of the better man, and find a starting place for moving on. He wanted to apologize, kind of, but Kenny’s shit at apologies, so maybe it’s for the best that he never made it to the table and ruined Jack’s golden night with his golden boy. Jack, who has everything: the Cup, the Ross-Richard-Hart combo that no one’s pulled off since Ovechkin the year before their—his—The Draft.

There’s talk Jack’ll be able to pull the King Clancy after his work with mental health advocates and You Can Play, especially since his coming out. Cynics suggest he’ll be up for the Masterson if he and his career survive this next year.

Kent has no doubt he’ll make it through. Zimms has always been a survivor, whether he wanted it or not.

Kent pours himself another drink.

_X__X__X_

Kent pours himself another drink, and thinks about Jack, and Mashkov, and Eric Bittle, the man who makes Zimms happy. He thinks of how small he looked sitting between Jack and Mashkov.

Mashkov, who passed on hard liquor in favor of a hip flask filled with sweet tea. Mashkov, whose easy affection disarmed Kent faster than he’d been prepared for. Mashkov, who’d been sitting next to Zimms and his boyfriend all night.

Mashkov, who understood all too easily the roles they had to play in front of others.

 _Fuck._ He’d been set up.

_X__X__X_

Kent pours himself another drink, and tosses the bottle with a clink into the bin next to the bar. He opens another, just to be prepared, and pours a bit on top of the one he’s already got, just to get the fumes off.

He’s not sure if that makes sense, so he bolts the whole thing back and pours another. Then he turns to the mirror behind the bar and smashes it. It feels just as satisfyingly dramatic as it did the last time he did this, so he strikes out at it again, rattling the rest of it to the ground, delighting in the reflected light and images and ignoring the sound of a key in the lock. He checks his glass to make sure no shards bounced back, and tips it to his lips again.

“Christ, Parse,” he hears from the doorway. It’s Swoops, clearly come to check on him after finishing his own afterparty.

“S’okay, Swoops. I bought them in bulk for this.”

Swoops eyeballs the scene, from the bottles in the bin and on the bar, to the shards of mirror scattered around Kent’s socked feet.

“The booze or the mirror?”

“Mirror, ‘fcourse.”

Swoops sighs.

“Of course you did. You’re such a drama queen, Parse. Now come here,” he says, opening his arms and approaching slowly. “Don’t step anywhere, let me carry you to the bathroom and look at your fist.”

Kent is startled at the blood on his knuckles. Last time, he’d chucked his glass at the mirror. He looks at the glass in his other hand, and supposes the drink seemed more worth saving this time around. He tosses the rest of it back rather than waste it, then stretches out and wraps his arms around Swoops’ neck. He buries his face in the collar of Swoops’ t-shirt when he’s encouraged him to wrap his legs around Swoops’ waist.

Swoops carries him into the bathroom, and Kent sighs.

“You’re so good to me, Swoops. The best.”

“I know.”

“Tonight was stupid.”

“Yeah? You got an award, though.”

“I have awards, they’re stupid.”

“I saw you spending time with Mashkov.”

“He was a decoy. He’s stupid.”

Kent thinks he might be crying now. Swoops has noticed.

“Aw, come on, now, Parser, just give me your fist and let me patch it up, then we can get you to bed. I’ll get you some water and put Britney on for you.”

Kent hiccups into his tears, laughing.

“You really are the best. Why haven’t we slept together?”

Swoops tousles his hair, which he usually hates but secretly loves.

“You know I hate that ‘gay means promiscuous’ bullshit, KP.”

“Yeah, but I’d totally sleep with only you. You’re the best ever.”

Swoops sighs as he finishes bandaging Kent’s hand. He hands Kent his rinsing cup full of water, and watches as he drinks it carefully, only spilling a bit. They move together into Kent’s room, both getting ready for bed. It’s not the first time they’ve cuddled through a bad night.

_X__X__X_

It’s not until they’re in bed, and Kent’s held carefully to Swoops’ side, that he finally answers.

“I’m seeing someone, Parse. Have been for a while.”

Kent, neither asleep nor sober, was not expecting or prepared to hear that. He flings himself back off of Swoops’ chest.

“The fuck, David?!”

Swoops—David—sits up as well, and scoots up to rest his back against the headboard.

“Yeah, man. I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you understand the need to keep it low-key. He and I—we were still new, and then we were old news, and we’re not exactly going public any time soon.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Kent has gotten out of bed at this stage, has pressed himself into the corner by the bathroom door. It feels like he doesn’t know his friend anymore.

Swoops can see he’s not taking it well.

“Look, I should have…”

“Fucking right you should have, Christ!” Kent’s hands are in his hair now, tugging harshly. This whole night has been a ruin, lies on top of deception on top of secrets and betrayal.

“What you should do now is get the fuck out.”

“Kent. Kenny—“

“No, fuck you, don’t call me that. Don’t call me. Christ, I—“

“Kent, you don’t feel for me like that, you know you don’t.”

“That’s not the fucking point, Swoops. I could have! You’re supposed to be my fucking friend. ‘I’m seeing someone,’ he says, letting another man sleep next to him. Does your _boyfriend_ know where you are, David?”

“Yeah, Kent. He does. He knows I was coming to check on you, and he knows nothing would happen.”

“Christ, you’ve talked about me, of course you have. I’m sure he knows all about me. All about your needy fucking friend who—what, gets drunk and needs a cry? A cuddle? A big strong man to help him? Jesus Christ, just get out. I don’t know which of us disgusts me more right now.”

“Kent—“

“Get. OUT!”

Kent slams back into the bathroom and locks the door. He climbs into the shower stall and closes that door, too, wedging himself against the built-in bench and resting his face on the cool tile. It’s too cold to stay in here all night, but he figures he can always turn the shower on if it gets bad. He wishes, irreverently, that he’d sprung for the heated walls and floor in addition to the multiple showerheads. In here, he can’t hear whether or not Swoops has left yet. He thinks about turning the shower on anyway, to drown out whatever sounds may or may not be coming from outside. To drown something.

He wishes he had a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

“You sure if I buy apartment, Skittles does not come with?”

Jack snorts and settles back into the sofa with a grin, full and happy after a low-key dinner party with the Falcs, celebrating the team’s success at the NHL Awards the previous weekend. It’s getting late—or at least late for him and Bitty, which is to say it’s after ten—and the rest of the players and their families have left. Tater has stuck around for pie and coffee, but Jack figures there’s something more on his mind.

Tucking an indignant Bitty more firmly against his side, Jack presses a kiss against his hair.

“Not a chance, Mr. Mashkov, I am not part of the deal. Besides, as much as I love this kitchen, I got to oversee the renovation of our new one.”

“But what if I…”

As Tater continues his negotiating, Jack lets Bitty take over the conversation and drifts for a while on the comfort of having his boyfriend’s bright warmth close against him, and the mellow success of the evening. He’s bolstering himself, he knows, and after the chirping slows he gives Bitty a squeeze. They have a physical language now, the two of them, a way of communicating that’s been sweetly-learned and hard-earned over the past couple of years together.

As always, Bitty seems to know what’s needed. Giving Jack a kiss on the cheek as he rises, he takes Jack’s hands and pulls him to his feet.

“Alright now, Jack, it’s your turn for the dishes. I suppose I can let Tater help you—y’all carry in our plates and mugs, and I’ll keep tidying out here. I’m afraid to see what Snowy and Poots have done to the bathroom this time.”

Jack snags a proper kiss before letting go of Bitty’s hands, and he and Tater do as instructed, gathering up the last of the dishes. They’d moved everything else into the kitchen before Bitty brought out the pie, and now he and Tater stack the remaining dishes onto the neat piles.

The dishwasher’s loaded and the sink full of hot soapy water before Tater makes an uncomfortable sound. Jack’s abruptly grateful for Bitty’s foresight in giving them a task that keeps both their hands busy and their faces turned towards the wall rather than one another.

“So, Jack. I want to ask—“ Alexei stops abruptly, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “This is not good? Or polite, maybe? But Erichnya told me, at awards. That you and—“ He stops again, and Jack takes pity on him.

“Yeah, Bits told me what he asked you to do. And I wanted to say thank you. I mean, it’s. It’s a tough situation, and I hate to put you in that place, but it did make life easier for me. For us.”

Jack can see Alexei nodding out of the corner of his eye, and thinks about what else might need to be said. He’d like to explain a bit, but it’s such a fraught topic for him, as distant as it all seems now. He’s spent a lot of time and effort getting to the point where he can be here, thinking about it, without shaking to pieces.

“Can I ask—he was your boyfriend?”

Jack takes a deep breath, trying to figure out how to say what needs saying while letting Kent’s life stay his own business. But something about Alexei’s tone, about the way he approached this, catches at Jack’s attention. He considers his friend as closely as he can from his peripheral vision, the focus Alexei’s turned to drying the pot in his hands, the determined set to his jaw. They’ve never talked about this, but Jack’s wondered about that. He considers Alexei one of his closest friends, and he’s learned better than to make certain types of assumptions, especially when it comes to professional athletes.

“That’s—well, there’s a simple answer, and a complicated one. Um. I don’t want to speak for him, you know?”

Alexei carefully puts the clean pot on the counter, but doesn’t put down his dishcloth. He turns to Jack briefly and gives him a searching look, before taking the next dish and turning, methodically starting to dry it.

“We talk for a long time after you leave, me and Parson. About all sorts. Not you, though, I think I distract well, but.” Alexei takes another deep breath, and doesn’t speak through the next two dishes. Jack can tell he still has more to say, and is never one to push, so they continue in silence.

“I think I am interest in him. I want to know him more, but do not want to… step on toes? Want to talk to you first.” Alexei sneaks a glance at Jack, whose face must be more revealing than he’d like because Alexei laughs and nudges Jack’s shoulder. “Do not worry, your Erichnya is safe from me. I am to protect him, not carry him away.”

That startles a laugh out of Jack, who nudges him back. “I wasn’t worried, you goon. I was just—you’ve never said. I never wanted to ask.”

“Is not big deal, when you have no one.”

Jack doesn’t entirely agree, but he definitely understands.

“And now you want someone?”

Jack bites his tongue to hold back his laughter when Alexei—6’4” captain and star defenseman, a man who can go by a name like ‘Tater’ and still be seen as a threat—actually blushes.

“It is. He.” Tater stalls out again, and this time Jack doesn’t mind filling the silence. He actually feels more relaxed than he expected, given the subject matter. For some reason, Alexei’s interest unknots something in his stomach, like easing a deep cramp.

“Look, it’s not my business. I mean, I have a history with Kent, but it’s just that—in the past. I’ve known him since we were kids, but I haven’t _known_ him since we were kids. And I was kind of wrapped up in my own stuff a lot, so I don’t even know how well I could have possibly known him. We both missed some pretty big things about one another. So I don’t know what I could tell you, especially since I can’t speak for him.”

Jack glances at Alexei to make sure he’s following. Alexei nods briefly, and Jack continues.

“I can’t speak for him, but I can say what happened for me. We were young, we were—involved. Well, I wasn’t as involved. You’re aware of what I did?” Once upon a time, Jack’s instinct would have been to say _what happened_ , but he’s learning to take responsibility for it, to own the pain and mistakes of his past.

Alexei nods again, and puts a big hand on Jack’s shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze.

“I join league the year later. I remember, is okay.”

Jack thinks he can spare a bit more honesty than he usually gives, considering what Alexei’s shared with him.

“I didn’t just drop out to go to rehab. I overdosed, on my anxiety meds. I don’t…think I was suicidal, but to be honest there were a lot of things going on then that I didn’t have a solid grasp on. I’ve forgotten a lot, one way or another, about what I felt like then.”

Alexei’s hand tightens again before he goes to pick up the dishrag again, his hand brushing against the pocket of his jeans in passing.

“I understand, friend. Promise.”

“Well, then you see I’m not the best person to ask about Kent. It wasn’t—it isn’t—healthy for me to be around him, which is why Bitty asked you to do what you did. I think that was just me and him, though. He seems to be well-liked by most people. I mean, you have my blessing, if that’s what you want. But I think you might understand where he’s coming from now better than I could.”

Alexei gives him a look, and Jack can’t tell if he’s just curious or if there’s a trace of panic in his eyes.

“I mean, I had the chance to get my life sorted, and got to spend a lot of time with myself, facing things that I wouldn’t have had to address if I’d gone straight into the league.” Jack pauses, and hopes his word choice sinks in. “I don’t know if Kent has had that chance. I mean, when your focus is hockey and only hockey without any other outlets, well. It seems you’d know more about what it’s like.”

The more Jack thinks about it, the more he sees the parallels. Closeted captains, Stanley Cup winners, plenty of friends but apparently alone. Judging from the look on Alexei’s face, he understands what Jack’s saying.

“For what it’s worth, Alexei, I think you could be good for him. But I think that’d be true of you for anyone, you’re one of the best guys I know.”

The air gets noticeably lighter at this, and both he and Alexei seem to release deep breaths at the same time, as if coming up from underwater. Alexei smiles at him, a bit goofily, and Jack recognizes his chirp face.

“I tell your Skittles! You not worried I take him, you try to run off with me!”

Jack laughs, but the comment makes him ask:

“Is it okay, if Bitty knows? About you, at least. I’ll keep your crush a secret if you like.”

Alexei blushes again, and nudges him harder than before. Jack’s glad he wasn’t holding a dish anymore.

“Is okay for Skittles. Like I say, never meant to be a secret, it just never matters.”

Jack’s the one to squeeze Alexei’s shoulder this time, as they turn back towards the living room together. Jack can hear Bitty coming down the hall, and feels his heart swell as he comes into sight, up to his elbows in yellow rubber gloves with a determined look on his face and a splash of suds clinging to his jawline just below his left ear.

“It matters,” he says, glancing back up to Alexei and moving to swipe the suds from Bitty’s face. Now that he knows, he can recognize the masked longing on the taller man’s face at his easy affection with Bitty—or maybe Alexei’s just not bothering to mask it anymore.

At the door, they repeat congratulations for the awards they’ve won. Alexei thanks him one last time as they hug their goodbyes, and Jack wishes him luck in return. He suspects Alexei will need it, although he hopes, for his friend’s sake, that won’t be true.


	4. Chapter 4

After they’ve stripped out of their clothes and brushed their teeth, Bitty and Jack crawl into bed together, Jack fitted up tight against Bitty’s back. They’ll shift apart again in the night, because Jack throws heat like furnace and Bitty is a wandering sleeper, but for now, fresh into bed after a long day, they curl into one another.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Eric’s arranged them like this on purpose. They’ve gotten very good at talking to one another over the past couple years, in person and over distance. Eric knows that, when it comes to difficult conversations, Jack prefers lots of physical contact but little eye contact, and both like having the option to put off a discussion if needed.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s fine—well, it’s a bit strange, honestly. Did you ever wonder…” Jack pauses and presses his face against Eric’s shoulder. Against his skin, Eric can feel Jack’s expression changing as he works out what to say. Jack lifts his face and inhales deeply against the back of Eric’s ear, causing him to squirm with ticklishness before settling. “Okay, first of all, Alexei said I could talk to you about it, that it wasn’t meant to be a secret. But he’s. Not straight.”

Eric lets that slot into place. He’s gotten particularly good at not assigning a default sexuality to people who don’t exhibit any interest one way or another, and Alexei’s always been a big question mark that Eric let rest. Jack’s arm tightens around his waist a little, and Eric remembers that they’re supposed to be having a conversation.

“Oh, well that’s—is that what he wanted to talk to you about? I thought it would be about the Awards.”

“Well, yeah. It was. I mean, it’s related. He’s actually…interested in Parse. Like _that_. It’s why it came up."

Eric goes quiet again, wondering what Jack’s thinking. They’ve talked about Parson before, thoroughly, in the early days of their relationship. He knows that Jack has some tangled-but-sincere feelings towards Parson, some feeling of responsibility for his damage—their mutual damage—and a sense of obligation towards him that Eric doesn’t feel threatened by, precisely _because_ they’ve talked about it.

Still, that doesn’t mean _he_ agrees with Jack’s assessment of their situation, and it doesn’t mean he has to like the other man. Wishing him the best and wishing him far away from them are not mutually exclusive ideas, after all. But he doesn’t want to ask how Jack feels about this new development, even though he does want to know. He has trouble pushing the words around a sudden knot in his lungs and past his lips, so instead squeezes Jack’s hand where it rests on his stomach. Jack, thankfully, seems to understand.

“I feel…good, I think.” Jack pauses. “It’s strange.”

Bitty can’t hold back the snort, and Jack’s fingers are quick and unrelenting as they press directly into Bitty’s ticklish ribs.

“Sorry! Sorry—but I think _strange_ is an understatement, honey. Tater and Parson?”

Errant fingers go back to resting placidly against Bitty’s stomach as Jack continues.

“Haha, yeah, maybe. Probably. But what I mean is, I think they could work together. That’s what’s strange.”

Eric is willing to give the thought some consideration, since Jack clearly finds it important. But he can’t help his own residual concern for Jack, for what having Parson intersecting with his life in any new way could mean. Jack’s so giving, when he cares for people, that he forgets to take care of his own needs. Eric has appointed himself protector of all things Jack Laurent Zimmermann, all his tender places and sharp edges, and he worries about how those might collide. So his response, when it comes, is hesitant, but he’s trying.

“I think I…can see what you mean. On the surface, at least, there’s a lot in common. I’m afraid I can’t speak to what’s on the inside when it comes to Parson, but I know Tater has the biggest heart.”

 _I just don’t want to see it broken_ , is what he doesn’t say. Jack probably hears it, anyway.

“I think that might just be what it would take to reach Kenny, honestly.”

Eric knows that Jack uses that name when he’s thinking about the better times, and good things, that it’s not a reflection of any other feelings, but it still makes him shudder a bit to hear it. The knot in his chest hasn’t gone away. He hates that he reacts this way, but he’s not perfect.

Jack knows this, and loves him anyway. Eric knows that, not least because Jack changes the subject now, turning Eric in his arms for a kiss.

Eric looks up at Jack, whose hand is brushing Eric’s hair from his forehead, cupping his jaw.

“You make me so happy, Bits.” He ducks his head down and snags another kiss. “I just want everyone to find something like this.”

Bitty loves this boy so much, and tells him so.

“You are such a gentle man, sweetheart. I just wish I was half as good as you are, to everyone.”

Jack huffs a laugh against Eric’s lips, and his hand slides from Eric’s jaw to cup the back of his neck.

“You like me gentle, eh?” When Jack nips at his bottom lip, Bitty feels the knot melt as heat pools in his belly, the base of his spine. His arousal is sudden but languid, rising slowly to lick across his knees, out to his fingers, climbing his shoulders. He scratches his nails through the short hairs at the nape of Jack’s neck.

“I like you all sorts of ways, darlin’.”

Jack’s hand slides from neck to chest, pinching his nipple before sliding down and around beneath the waistband of his shorts to pull him close.

“All sorts?” he murmurs against Eric’s cheek, his lips and teeth making themselves known along a path leading to his neck.

Bitty arches against him, giving in to the urge to grind himself forward.

“All of ‘em,” he gasps, his head falling back as Jack applies all his focus to making Bitty lose his.

There are many noises that follow, but not one of them is a complaint.

_X__X__X_

The following morning finds Eric up early, despite their relatively late night. He dreamt of a recipe the night before, and woke with a pie half-formed in his head that he needs to bake out. It’s not often that he’s up before Jack—who still works harder than God—but this morning he’d had no choice but to slip off his side of the bed a full half hour before Jack’s first alarm goes off.

He hears it, now, and though his focus is on putting the finishing touches on the thin chocolate layer topping the cinnamon and lemon-cream pie he’s almost ready to set chilling, there’s always a portion of his attention that turns towards Jack like a flower to the sun. That part of him, with the sweet ache of familiarity, traces out Jack’s waking as his own hands go through the motions.

Jack will turn off his alarm and roll towards Eric’s side of the bed first, one arm outstretched to feel the empty space. Now, he’ll be sitting up with his legs over the side of the bed and looking around; now, shuffling to the bathroom as one hand scrubs through the hair at the back of his head. Eric hears the water in the bathroom sink turn on just in time for Jack to be washing his hands and face, brushing his teeth. Now, he’s noticing that Eric’s toothbrush is still sitting on the side of the sink. A double _clink clink_ means Jack’s understood the signal and moved their brushes back to the cup.

When they wake up alone on a morning they should both be in bed, leaving the toothbrush out means the other is just up and about, and everything’s okay.

A lot of being together, and living together, has come so naturally. But there are some things, like the toothbrush signal, that they’ve had to talk through. Certain little routines they train themselves into, ways of saying _it’s alright_ and _I’m thinking of you_ , ways of consciously caring for one another. Both have insecurities about their relationship, and trouble expressing certain feelings and fears. Both are scared of hurting the other in some invisible way. But they’re learning.

Jack comes into the kitchen right on time, wrapping his arms around Eric’s waist and resting his sleep-slack face against Eric’s hair. The pie is chilling in the fridge, and Eric’s feeling much calmer than he was the night before. He baked the tangled knot of emotions untied, focusing on the way that his love for Jack made him feel so strongly, bound him to his feelings, and his feelings to his body. He baked all his good-luck wishes into that pie, too.

Taking a moment to lean back against Jack and wrap his own arms over his boyfriend’s, Bitty relaxes into the embrace.

“I’m going to bring this pie by Tater’s place later, if it turns out right. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

Jack just murmurs softly against his hair, turns a kiss against the top of his ear, and sways him gently to the music drifting from the kitchen speakers.

“Alright, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty sighs, turning in Jack’s arms. “Let’s go back to bed.”

Jack’s eyes, so hooded at the best of times, look like they’ve hardly opened up this morning. It’s still early enough in the post-season that Jack allows himself a slower start, some mornings. It’s another thing he and Bitty have had to talk through, particularly when it comes to mornings-after and emotion hangovers. Sometimes they need the extra time spent holding one another.

Bitty loves this boy so much he feels like his chest could crack open with the joy of it.


	5. Chapter 5

Alexei doesn’t have a problem with marijuana, so it’s not unusual for him to join Snowy, at least in the off-season, for a night of noodles and nature documentaries. Tonight it has the added benefit of providing a smokescreen, so to speak, for the purpose behind his visit.

They’re well into their second episode of The Blue Planet and their third plate of spaghetti (this time topped with Cheez-its) when, from the cluster of reluctant penguins, a couple flop to their bellies and begin sliding towards the water, and Tater is reminded of his original intent.

“ _Snegovik_.” He pauses, thinks, moves his mouth around the words he wants. “Snowy. Danny. Why no introduce me to Aces Parson?”

Snowy, sprawled languorously across the sofa to Tater’s left, slowly turns his head towards his friend, a broad grin taking just as long to cross his face.

“Yeah, man. I heard you made a new friend at the Awards.” Snowy finds something funny in that, and his snorting laughter sets Tater off as well. It takes a few minutes for the giggles to finally subside.

“He is funny guy, is Parson?” Tater doesn’t mean it to sound so much like a question. Snowy snorts again, but they stifle the giggles this time.

“Well, I mean. He’s a good guy, yeah? Good with the rookies, a good captain. He just…” Snowy pauses, and waves his hands in front of his own face, shaping something Tater can’t see. “He’s such a scratchy blue. He doesn’t really _do_ friends.”

Tater thinks about this, can kind of see what the goalie’s saying, even if he doesn’t see the world the same way Snowy does.

“Scratchy blue, hunh?”

“Yep.” Snowy’s set the bag on his little contraption to inflate again, and speaks through its whirring. “He’s like an old peacoat worn inside out. But I dunno man, it could make sense.”

“It could?” Tater watches as Snowy inhales, and passes the half-full bag to him. He follows suit.

“Yeah. You’re all pebbled and yellow. Like buttered cobblestones. You could be friends. It’d make about as much sense as anything else.”

Tater exhales, feels the heat radiating comfortably from his lungs, watches the smoke rise and thinks of long cold days, a different burn in the lungs.

“What makes sense?” He doesn’t really expect an answer.

“Pucks. Only thing in this goddamned world that do. Black and hard rubber and solidly where they’re meant to exist.”

Tater chokes on his laughter, and Snowy leans over to thump his back.

“You strange guy, Snowy.”

The man in question melts back onto his sofa, smiling.

“Maybe. I’m not the one trying to make friends with Kenny Winehouse.”

Tater tilts his head, not understanding. Snowy laughs.

“Doesn’t matter. She’s a—well, she was a singer. She died…eh, not long after you got to the States, I bet. It’s just something we used to call him.”

“Not a nice name?”

Snowy shrugs, but has no response.

“Sounds like lonely guy.”

Snowy seems to give that a bit of thought, then looks back to Alexei, who’s swung his long legs up to stretch out on the sofa.

“You know, Tater Tot, if anyone could make friends with Kent Parson, I’d put money on you.”

Tater smiles. “A gamble, hey? You know where is a good place for that?”

Snowy shakes his head, but his expression is both fond and resigned.

“I hope you know I fucking hate Vegas.” He scrunches up his nose, squints his eyes. “All that noise.”

Tater reaches a long arm over, ruffles his goalie’s hair. “Is okay. You love your captains. And I bring a bag for your head.”

Snowy snorts a laugh, and sets the vaporizer going again.

_X__X__X_

Alexei’s out on the balcony, a glass of water in hand and a lot on his mind, when the owner of said balcony comes out to join him. Tater watches over his shoulder as he approaches, a little unsteady on his feet. Behind him, in the living room, Snowy’s lying on the floor with his feet under the coffee table, his face pressed to the ridiculous fur rug.

“He is still making raspberries on your sheep?”

“Nah,” Parson says. “I think he actually fell asleep there.” He takes a long sip of his drink before leaning on the railing a few feet from Alexei, setting his glass carefully on the broad ledge. Alexei tips his head towards the amber liquid.

“You do not hold back tonight,” he acknowledges. It’s not entirely true—over the course of the night, Parson’s been…not standoffish, quite, but distant. Of course, Alexei knows they practically invited themselves over, but Parson hadn’t seemed put out by the idea. Quite the opposite, if Snowy’s report was anything to go by after he’d made the call arranging the trip. Alexei tried not to expect anything, but this wariness was something he’d hoped they’d gotten past a couple weeks ago, at the Awards.

Parson snorts, tips back the rest of his drink—his sixth? Seventh? Alexei’s been paying attention, but hasn’t really kept count.

“Yeah, well,” he says, and Alexei can hear a bitterness creep around the edge of his words. “I have nothing to hide here.”

“I do.” Alexei measures his words before continuing. “Skittles ask me for favor, at Awards. I take advantage.”

Parson’s scowl deepens, but Alexei is not deterred. “He does not know I have my reasons to agree. I am not—was not…out, to him. Skittles ask favor, but I am selfish man.”

Alexei can almost hear Kent’s eyebrows shoot up, but by the time he darts a look from the side of his eye, the scowl is back in place. It sits oddly on his face, now.

“Skittles is about right; you can really taste the rainbow on that one—“

“No.” Alexei’s tone is sharp, and his face serious as he turns to face the other man. “You do not speak like that. He is good friend, braver than me. And I am thinking we are in this all together.”

“He’s not _in_ anything anymore,” Kent sneers, but the words come out less scathing than Alexei thinks Kent intended. As if sensing he’s revealed more than he’d wanted, Kent continues.

“He told you to distract me.”

Alexei tips his head consideringly. He will not lie, and knows he must handle this carefully. He knows Kent is hurt, and like any wounded animal he is prone to snap.

“He did not ask, I offer. Like I say, I have reasons.” He looks steadily at Kent, who meets his gaze defiantly, and Alexei can’t help the way the corner of his mouth ticks up. “Skittles looks for way to leave. I choose to stay.”

Alexei’s the first to break the stare, and looks back over the balcony.

“When I come to America, I am year after you. I don’t speak good English, I don’t hear things about Zimmbo—Jack. But Kent Parson? He is setting books on fire. He is a lot of man to look up to, for someone so small.”

“Fuck you, I’m not that small!” The other side of Alexei’s mouth ticks up, and he looks back at Kent. Kent, who seems to have surprised himself again with the difference between his intentions and his tone. The tips of his ears go pink as Alexei straightens up from his lean against the railing, still plenty of distance between them, but it works to emphasize just how much Kent has to tilt his head to meet Alexei’s eyes.

The scowl makes a valiant attempt to hold its territory, but ultimately retreats, and Tater’s returning grin is victorious.

A noise comes from the living room, drawing their attention. Snowy seems to be rolling himself up in the rug, but does not appear to be fully aware of that fact.

“Um, we should go back inside, if you’re, you know. Finished? I mean. You’re, um. Welcome to leave Snowy here, if you want to go back to the hotel. Usually when he’s crossfaded like this he’s impossible to get up.” Kent laughs, a bit, and when he looks at Snowy his eyes are fonder than Alexei expected. “It’s not the first time he’s fallen asleep on that rug. And, well, if you’d like, you’ve got your pick of couches.”

Alexei nods solemnly, and Kent goes to fetch a spare blanket and pillows while Alexei tidies up glasses and bottles. He refills his water glass and pulls out a couple more, filling them for Snowy and Kent. When he gets back to the living room, Kent’s patting Snowy’s hair and tucking a pillow under the sleeping man’s head.

“You are good captain,” Alexei says as he hands Kent a glass.

“Oh, well. You too,” he replies, tipping his glass at Alexei. “Cheers.”

Alexei takes a sip of his water, then settles the glasses on the coffee table. He accepts the blanket from Kent, and turns to shake it out over the couch he’s picked. It’s pretty long, but it’s also deep enough that curling up a bit won’t be a problem. He glances down at Snowy, then back up to Kent, and wonders just how much of this place is furnished for others' comfort rather than his own.

Kent’s watching him, and Alexei’s hesitant to start stripping down in front of him. This isn’t a locker room, and he feels he’s stated his interest pretty clearly—but he’s also not looking to start anything tonight. Not with as much as Kent’s had to drink, and not with the lack of trust between them. He wants Kent to know he’s interested, but he doesn’t want—

Kent catches Alexei off-guard, when he speaks.

“Do you think you’ll ever come out?”

It’s not what Alexei expected, to say the least. He sits down on the couch without undressing, giving the question some thought.

“I am…not sure. I say it does not matter, when is just me. In or out, yes? I am thinking that a long time. I see my friends, and when you have someone it is different. And I see these other guys—the old guys, the new guy, when they come out. But there is no one like us, is there? They are retired, or they just starting. Even my friends. I see and I am thinking it is different to have someone. But now? I am not so sure it does not matter, even alone.”

Alexei stops, and now he is the one unable to meet Kent’s gaze. The other man has said nothing, has not moved.

“I am thinking,” Alexei continues. “I am having to wait. There is Korea next year, yes? I am thinking I play for Russia one more time. Then maybe I will see.” He makes himself look up at Kent, then. The other man’s face is unreadable. Alexei looks away again, reaches for his water, tries to shake the nerves that his train of thought has raised.

Snowy shifts in his sleep, and the strange tension dissipates. Alexei looks around the living room to find the outlet where he left his phone charging, moves towards it to set the alarm. It’s past midnight now, he notes. He hears Kent move towards the kitchen, and looks up to see him drain the rest of his water and set the glass in the sink. It’s as if he’s forgotten Alexei is there, so when Kent starts towards the hallway leading to the back of his condo, Alexei clears his throat a bit to catch his attention. Those strange eyes shift back to him, so he offers a small smile.

“Good night, Kent Parson. Happy birthday.”


	6. Chapter 6

Kent considers himself an impeccable host, whether or not anyone actually recognizes him as such. He gets recognition for enough in his life, he actually likes the chance to be sneaky sometimes.

Tonight, he was definitely not sneaky, and definitely not a good host. He’s still not sure how to feel about either of these things. He’s been lying in bed for something like an hour now, torn between embarrassment and something that might be gratitude. Also, he thinks, a probably unhealthy dose of resentment.

Mashkov wasn’t supposed to admit that he’d distracted Kent on purpose. He wasn’t supposed to admit…whatever the hell else that was. Interest? Identity? Kent doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s been staring at his bedroom door since lying down, and he’s not sure what he expects. He doesn’t know what to do with any of this.

He rolls over to stare at the wall instead.

They were all a little fucked up tonight, Kent knows. He can’t trust anything that happened. He can’t trust anything. He doesn’t normally like to smoke, so he’d stuck to booze while Snowy and Mashkov smoked up. He’d ended up a little contact high anyway, and he should have worked harder to hold onto his anger. But every other word out of Mashkov’s mouth was unexpected, and that made half the words out of his own mouth just as unexpected.

He knows he’s not the only closeted player in the league. For all that Zimms’ coming out was supposed to blaze a trail, there are still folks like him, and fucking David, and apparently Mashkov. Kent hasn’t thought of coming out, not really, and maybe especially not really since Zimms went first. Kent’s never been happy in Jack’s shadow. Kent’s never been happy— _fuck_.

He rolls back over to face the door. He doesn’t know what time it is, he keeps his clock in the bathroom where the light can’t bother him and the alarm’s far enough away to stop him from hitting snooze. His phone’s been dead for a couple of hours now. Nothing’s going to happen, he doesn’t need to watch the door. Even if on the other side of it, he’s got—nothing, really. Danny, an old rookie with sensory issues, cuddled in the rug Kent had bought for him years ago and hadn’t had the heart to get rid of.

And whatever Mashkov is.

Mashkov, who looks at Kent with warm eyes, when Kent’s used to outright heat or utter ice. Mashkov, who hints at an interest in Kent beyond hockey, who says he’s planning to come out. Mashkov, who Kent _knows_ talked Snowy into visiting, since he hasn’t seen Snowy since the last time the Falcs played in Vegas, even if they do tweet at each other occasionally.

Mashkov, who he can’t bring himself to trust—he’s playing some game for Jack and his boy, he must be. He was so quick to defend the kid, and his professed interest in Kent is pretty fucking conveniently timed. In fact, now that he thinks about it more, Kent’s sure that the NHL’s closet mafia would have clued him into Mashkov’s status, or interest, long before now if it were true. Kent can’t figure out what angle he’s playing, but he’s not going to trust a damn thing the Russian says.

He glares at the door until his eyes are tired, until his head hurts. He thinks about Mashkov’s last words to him before Kent brought himself to bed.

Happy fucking birthday, indeed.

He rolls back over to face the wall, and waits for sleep to take him.

_X__X__X_

Muffled voices draw him from the uncertain sleep of a whiskey morning. He remembers waking once to stumble into his bathroom for a piss and a few cupfuls of water, a precaution that doesn’t seem to have served him particularly well. The pounding headache’s nothing unfamiliar, though, so he rolls carefully out of bed to empty out the aftereffects of the water, brush his teeth, and pop a couple aspirin. He’d had an aversion to pills, once upon a time, but it only takes so many injuries and so many hangovers before the past is wrestled into submission.

He meets his eyes in the mirror. He’s 27 today. He’s been in Vegas exactly eight years and one week. He tries not to think about that week. He tries not to think about that year, really. Sometimes the past isn’t wrestled into submission so much as left on the mat while Kent runs as fast as he can in the opposite direction. He’s known for being quick on his feet.

He looks washed out, feels washed out. He thinks his eyes look green right now, but that might just be because they’re bloodshot. He splashes water on his face, scrubs a wet rag under his arms, and turns away from the mirror. The clock tells him it’s just after 10 am. He grabs a fresh t-shirt and boxers from the closet and changes as quickly as the wretched pinching behind his eyebrows will let him. Feeling fresher, if not actually refreshed, he remembers to plug his phone into its charger before leaving his room. Most everyone knows better than to call before noon, but he’ll spend most of the afternoon talking or texting and it’s best to just be prepared for it.

Knowing he’s been stalling, Kent follows the voices to the kitchen, where he finds Danny and Alexei laughing together. Alexei’s trying, without success, to put Kent’s godawful orange apron over Danny’s head.

“Is good, for your eggs! Toxic breakfast, come on, I know how you cook!”

It’s a ridiculous scene, and something hard shakes loose in Kent’s chest and disappears. They’re too busy scuffling to notice him, so he sidles past Mashkov with a hip check and takes the apron off his hands when he startles.

“I got this, Snowy, don’t worry. I remember what your eggs are like. I never thought a hangover could taste good in comparison to anything, before that.”

“Hey!” comes the indignant response, but he’s cut short by a whoop.

“Kent Parson can cook! This is great day!” Tater, well, _crows_ really is the best word for it, Kent thinks. It’s too soon for the pain meds to be working, but he can feel himself smile even while wincing.

“Have mercy, Mashkov, and keep it down.”

The Russian nods solemnly, but Kent doesn’t trust the glint in his eyes. He turns away and opens the fridge, nearly cracking his head, or the eggs, when Alexei speaks.

“Yes, very quiet, cannot let world know you cook. Reputation to maintain.”

Kent manages to get the eggs out intact, as well as the bacon and a few tomatoes. He snorts, grabbing onions and garlic from the bowl on the breakfast bar, and directs his next comment to Snowy.

“Okay, well, it’s vacation and we’re all awake—you guys go your bake on, and I’ll get the bacon.”

Snowy grins and shoves at Tater, who drapes an arm over his shoulders in turn as they head to the living room. Tater’s whisper is intentionally loud enough to carry.

“He cooks and makes terrible joke! Who is this Kent Parson?”

Pulling out a cutting board and a knife from the block, Kent shakes his head and sets to work. Sometimes he wonders the same thing, but right now, prepping omelets in his neon orange apron and listening to the renewed scuffle breaking out in the living room, he finds he’s not worried about that at all.

_X__X__X_

Kent’s quiet as they eat breakfast, but the other two are gratifyingly noisy with their praise. Before long, they’re regaling him with stories of other meals they’ve had while similarly intoxicated, and Kent wonders that they’re all real adults with professional jobs. The things they’ve snuck past their nutritionist walk a line between obscene and revolting. Granted, Snowy’s only what, 23 now? 22? It’s been a few years since he was traded away from Vegas, and Kent always finds calculating dates harder in the offseason, with the one exception.

The guys don’t seem to care that he’s only half-present, but to be fair so are they. His mind keeps wandering to Mashkov’s confession last night. Kent really _hasn’t_ thought that much about coming out before—he knows who in the league he can rely on for hook-ups and tells himself that’s enough—but he turns the idea over in his head. Mashkov wasn’t wrong; the only guys to have followed in Jack’s wake are a couple of new kids, and a handful of retired guys. There’s no one as well-established in the league as the two of them, or even Swoops. A Stanley Cup is great, and Kent is glad, in a distant sort of way, that Zimms has the support of his franchise, but two years in the league isn’t anything, really. Kent’s seen a lot of guys come and go—he thinks the numbers are something like 25% don’t even make it to a second season. He knows he’s years over the average career length, and it’s yet to be determined if Zimms entered at just the right time to benefit from being at peak physical strength for the long haul, or if his body won’t handle the strain after years of playing at a lower level.

Kent loses himself in the thought, for a minute. He’d had what could be considered a full career before Jack even entered the league. God, the fucking years they’d lost, the opportunity, by now one of them could have—Kent cuts that train of thought off abruptly. He knows Jack is happy now, that he doesn’t regret the path he’s taken. He’s never said as much to Kent’s face, but then, Kent doesn’t remember him smiling like that ever.

He drags his attention back to his living room, finding Snowy on the rug again, face down and murmuring broken Swedish while petting it. Mashkov’s eyes, however, are fixed on Kent. He tries to break the tension he hadn’t noticed settling in the room.

“Do you guys have a Swede that’s teaching him, or is he doing that because he knows it’s IKEA?”

Mashkov’s lips turn up into a half-smile, and Danny lets out one of his honking laughs.

“IKEA! God, I had no idea. That’s… that’s perfect. We’ve got an IKEA right there in Massassa—yeah. I need to get me a roomful of these. Cover the walls, like pucks! Parse, Parser, Parson Wrecks—“

“Ooh, that’s a new one, you know I’ve always seen myself as a Donna—“

“Parse! You’ve no idea how I’ve daydreamed about this beaut—what? No. No you are not. You are not Donna. You are. You are…”

Parson ruffles Snowy’s hair with his foot while he waits for the verdict.

“You are Ron Swanson. So stoic, so soft. You act like you don’t care about anything, just scratchy scratchy scratchy. But don’t get a moustache.”

“God, no. You’ve seen me try to grow a playoff beard, there’s no chance of that happening.”

At that, Snowy cackles and rolls over, reaching for his phone on the coffee table.

“Tater, Tater, Tater. You gotta see this. ‘Spathetic.”

Kent fakes a gasp of hurt, turning big eyes towards Mashkov, who’s watched the exchange silently. Alexei shrugs apologetically and reaches for the phone when Snowy offers.

“You are both wrong,” he says, looking at what Kent knows must be the weak-ass offering he had for the 2013 Cup run.

“You don’t have to be nice, Mashkov, I know I can’t grow facial hair.”

“No, that is right, is saddest thing I have seen, like that commercial with the puppies and piano.”

Kent tries not to squawk, but thinks he might have failed, judging by the looks he’s getting.

“You,” Tater intones, “are Chris, is obvious. Not Donna, not Ron.”

A moment passes, and then all three are laughing. Kent is definitely not considering re-watching the series just to figure out what Mashkov’s assessment means.

_X__X__X_

Despite the late breakfast, they have something of an early lunch a couple hours later when Mashkov goes hunting through Kent’s kitchen for munchies and turns up his stash of frozen pizzas. He cackles as he pulls them out of the freezer.

“Look! Kent Parson shakes his head at us, but has so many pizzas! So many! Look, whole stack of junk, I cannot lift. We must cook them all, save Parson from bad food!” Snowy’s snorting laughter is hard to resist, but Kent tries anyway.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles, “they’re Kashi!” But Kent knows it’s a lost cause, because Alexei and Danny are already sorting out the different flavors and pre-heating the double oven that only really gets used for occasions like this. Several months ago he’d shelled out for this wild phone-operated toaster oven that let him watch time lapse videos of his food, and he’s never looked back. Besides, his fans love the gifs he posts to twitter and regularly send in suggestions for what to cook next. PR is pretty happy, but that stupid toaster oven is something just for him, just because it makes him laugh. Cooking for himself hadn’t really been fun before that, and it’s not like he didn’t have the money to spend.

Unlike breakfast time, he’s more than happy to let the guys sort this out for themselves while he heads back towards his room. He gets his phone powering up while he pops into the bathroom, and by the time he’s washing his hands he can hear the constant pinging of the text alerts and missed call notifications.

Sitting on his bed, Kent goes to scroll through the call log when the name at the top of the list stops him short. _Alicia Zimmermann_ , it reads, and his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know why it’s tripping him up, she always calls for his birthday, but he’s thinking about last night, and this morning, and the idea of coming out. She’s the closest thing to a mother he’s got, really, even though their relationship is mostly just phone calls and the occasional dinner when they’re in the same city. He doesn’t think she knows about…anything that happened that summer, between him and Jack. She knows about the partying, of course, and clearly by now she knows about Jack. But she’s never given any indication that she knew, about them or about him.

Laughter from the kitchen yanks him back to the present, and he reaches for the phone again before stopping, his hand hanging in the air halfway to the nightstand. He pulls his hand back, pulls himself together. He still has guests, he can still be a good host. Pizza first, let the guys sober up enough to not embarrass themselves in the cab, and then.

Well, then he’ll deal with the rest of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about [the stats on NHL career length](http://www.quanthockey.com/Distributions/CareerLengthGP.php), or [ the very real toaster oven.](https://gizmodo.com/the-stupidly-expensive-june-oven-is-actually-stupidly-a-1788068498)


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